The Haigerloch Project

“That is all. Take him away.” He turned to look at his subject.

Sig was staring after the cripple. His mind whirled. Yes? Yes —what? How could the man identify him? He'd never laid eyes upon him before. Or had he? Or rather — had the man seen him? At the Haigerloch railroad spur? At the Bierstube? Where? The questions flooded his tormented mind. Questions. Questions without answers…

Rauner observed him with hidden amusement. The fellow could not know that his eyewitness, the only man who had had a good look at the foreign agent with the radio at the switching yard, had just indicated that this was not the man he'd seen. Had he recognized him, his instructions were to say No!

Again he walked up to his subject, truncheon in hand. Again he began circling him.

“In view of everything, Herr Brandt,” he said gravely. “I think it best we have another little — eh — talk. Tomorrow. I strongly advise you to use the time for some serious thought, Herr Brandt.” He stopped behind him. It was time for his little clincher. “If by tomorrow you are not prepared to tell me the complete truth, Herr Brandt—”

He suddenly struck Sig's shin a savage blow with his truncheon. Searing pain shot from his leg throughout his entire body. A scream tore from his throat — and hot tears welled in his eyes.

“If not…” The words reached Sig through a mantle of pain. “If not — the consequences could become extremely painful for you, I fear.”

Rauner returned to his desk. That was it. Step number one. A night of — reflection, and the man would crumble. He felt certain of it. There would be no need for elaborate methods of torture. It was economical. Effective. A minimum of manpower and effort used. He felt pleased with himself. He wondered if Harbicht would write a foreword for his manual. He pressed the button on his desk.

The door opened.

“Take him away,” he said.

He sat down at his desk. He removed Sig's identification papers from the thick file and replaced them with a few other items. Dirty, dog-eared identification cards. He was ready for the next one.

For a moment he sat and stared at a paper on top of the file. It was a copy of a Führerbefehl. More than two years old. A Führer Order. Never revoked. He read:

All enemies on commando or sabotage missions, even if they are in uniform, armed or unarmed, however captured, are to be slaughtered to the last man. If it should be necessary initially to spare one man or two for interrogation purposes, they are to be shot immediately this is completed.

This last one, he mused. This “Sigmund Brandt.” Was he the one Standartenführer Harbicht so desperately wanted?

Tomorrow…

Tomorrow he would find out.

5

The big clock on the post-office wall showed the time to be just before noon. The place was crowded with people. Gisela had known it would be. It was the hour the foreign mail was available for pick-up. She had selected the time for that very reason.

She walked to the public telephone in the corner. Nervously she looked around. She deposited her coin and waited for the operator.

“Polizei, bitte,” she said, a quaver in her tense voice.

Again she waited. She shielded the mouthpiece with a trembling hand.

“Police?… I want to report two men,” she said in a low voice. “Yes. They are — I don't know — perhaps war profiteers. One is a foreigner…. Yes. I know where they are….”

For a brief moment she spoke rapidly into the phone. Police denunciations were not uncommon in Hitler's Germany, but she did not want to be overheard. She hung up and left quickly. No one paid her the slightest attention. She glanced at the wall clock. It was just past noon….

* * *

Dirk looked at his watch.

“Noon,” he said tightly.

Oskar nodded. He took the old cracked porcelain bowl from the battered washstand and half-filled it with water from the handleless pitcher.

Dirk hauled a piece of white cloth from his rucksack. He tore it in half. He rolled up his right sleeve and held a little knife to his skin. Quickly he made a small cut. He squeezed it to make the blood run.

Oskar watched him.

“Not enough,” he said. “It must look to be a bad wound.” He grabbed the knife from Dirk and quickly gashed himself deeply on his left forearm. The blood flowed freely.

He dipped one piece of the cloth in the bowl and soaked up the blood, rinsing the rag in the water. It turned bright pink. He bound the other piece of cloth tightly around his arm, stanching the bleeding.

Dirk gave a quick look around the small attic room. The heavy dead-bolt they had installed on the only door to the place was still unbolted, but the door itself was locked. The massive washstand stood close to it. He threw the rucksack into a corner. He glanced at the single window. It was open.